Squid was hungry again. Of course he was. Rock had been feeding him—three meals a day, even! Fish, mostly. Sometimes old leftovers. Still, Squid complained. He always complained. About how empty his stomach felt. About how cold the sea was. About how he might die, if he didn’t eat soon. Rock was tired of it. He wasn’t a chef. He was a fisherman. Feeding a giant squid wasn’t part of the job description. So, one gloomy afternoon, Rock wandered down to Rocma’s place and “borrowed”—read: stole—a waterlogged cookbook. Maybe if Squid could learn to cook, he'd stop whining. Or at least stop eating everything in sight.

Squid didn’t get it at first. He thought it was food. He devoured the first few pages before realizing something horrible: Books taste like nothing. Worse than nothing. Like paper disappointment soaked in saltwater. He cried a little. Just a single tear. It floated.

Still… something inside him stirred. Cooking. Squid had never cooked before. But he wanted to try. It went… poorly. He boiled water with no fire. Fried fish on ice. Tried to sauté seaweed using a rock and a dream. At one point, he even attempted to cook Idate.

Eventually, “cooking” turned into violently smashing fish against boulders. The results were not edible. They were mostly sad. Squid watched the mess with his big eyes. His stomach growled. His heart ached. “I feel empty…” he whispered, barely audible above the sea breeze. Then, louder: “EMPTY AND HUNGRY IS THE WORST FEELING…!” He flopped dramatically onto the snow, tentacles sprawled like overcooked noodles.